


The Second Room Upstairs

by Laur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Awkward Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M, Nightmares, Rimming, Smut, Some pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Sherlock needed an excuse to invade John's room and 1 time he was invited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Room Upstairs

**1**

Lying on the couch like a mummy, Sherlock went from deathly still to a whirlwind of motion in point five seconds flat. He had been in deep contemplation since four in the afternoon and now erupted into awareness to find the flat dark, the glow of streetlights shining through the windows and a single lamp illuminated at the foot of the couch. He briefly considered checking the time, but the need for a laptop immediately submerged that thought, and he hopped to his feet, dressing gown tangling around his legs.

Then he remembered.

With a growl he sat back down again, annoyed at the waste of energy. He did not currently possess a laptop due to an unfortunate accident involving a precarious beaker of acid and ill-placed electronics last week. _Damn_.

However…

His hair was matted on the back where his head had been resting against the pillow, and he combed his fingers through it absently as he considered. The idea was perfect really, two birds with one stone, as it was said. 

John, technologically inept John, fortunately also had a laptop. A laptop that was currently not in the sitting room, the kitchen, the loo or Sherlock’s room. By the process of elimination, John’s laptop must therefore be in John’s room. 

Since the man had moved in twelve days ago, Sherlock had been itching to get a good look at his room, his private space, with his possessions and secrets. He’d resisted up to this point out of a respect for boundaries – a respect he did not personally feel but was aware of – for fear of scaring the man off. But, well, it was past time that John realized Sherlock had little belief in the personal space of others.

With a grin, Sherlock stood again and, with socked feet, made his quiet way up the stairs to the second room, where John slumbered peacefully. As he pushed open the bedroom door, he cursed himself for not turning off the lamp downstairs, whose diluted light seemed like a beacon in the pitch darkness of John’s room. 

Once the gap was large enough for Sherlock to fit through, he slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him, not bothering to latch it closed. For a moment he simply stood, eyes wide as he adjusted to the darkness, until he could make out the lump of John under his covers, illuminated by his alarm clock. Lying on his back, John emitted the faintest rumbling sound with each inhale, not quite loud enough to be considered a snore. It was too dark to pick up many details, but John appeared relaxed in sleep, making the worn face look about five years younger. The sheets, which had been tightly made, had tugged loose a bit during the night, which indicated some restlessness. There was about two feet of space between the lump of John’s feet and the foot of the bed, and John was not curled particularly tightly. The man was simply short, and Sherlock felt a wave of fondness rush through him at the sight.

Shaking his head, Sherlock tore his eyes away to scan the room, looking for the laptop. The room was disappointingly sparse, which he supposed was indicative of John’s character in its own right. No family photos, no jewelry, no clothes strewn on the floor. There was a glass of water a third full on his bedside table, an alarm clock, one closed cardboard box and a bag of toiletries on his dresser. This last made Sherlock pause. Why did John not feel comfortable in the flat yet? Why, to him, did his new residence not feel permanent yet? Tomorrow, Sherlock would insist he leave his toiletries in the bathroom for efficiency’s sake. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s curiosity would not be entirely assuaged tonight, as John’s closet was tightly closed, as were all his drawers, his bedsheets obscured the area under his bed, and the cardboard box was taped shut. No way of exploring those things silently. At least he’d found the laptop, which sat, along with John’s phone, charging on the dresser, its battery light blue to indicate it was fully charged.

Deftly unplugging the device, Sherlock quietly picked it up and turned back to the door when a floorboard under his weight creaked loudly. With a grimace, Sherlock froze, but it was too late. There was a gasp, a muffled curse, the sound of a drawer being yanked open, and suddenly Sherlock found himself facing Captain Watson, pyjama trousers low on his hips and illegal firearm in hand. 

“What do y – _Sherlock_?” 

“Good evening, John,” Sherlock greeted, voice calmer than he felt.

With a splutter, John quickly put away the handgun. “What are you – it’s two in the bloody morning!” 

“Oh, is it? Good morning, then, I suppose.” John wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Sherlock simply could not resist. He threw open the bedroom door, bathing the room in dim light as he moved to vacate the space. For a moment, John, squinting and cursing against the light, was beautifully illuminated, his abdominals and arm muscles tensing as he covered his face. There was a flash of the scar on his shoulder, just a glimpse of the gloriously gnarled flesh, before Sherlock forced himself out the door. “Thanks for the laptop,” he said haughtily, and trotted down the stairs.

“We are discussing boundaries tomorrow!” John hissed after him, and let the bedroom door snick closed. Not too angry then.

Pleased, Sherlock once again settled on the couch and went about deducing John’s password.

  


**2**

The first shout had been surprising, but not overly alarming. The walls were thin, and during over two months of cohabitation, Sherlock had been witness to several of John’s nightmares, sitting tensely in his armchair until the groans and whimpers trailed off into silence. John himself had mentioned them when he’d first moved in.

He’d sat Sherlock down and had fidgeted, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact, until, exasperated, Sherlock had said: “You want to tell me about your nightmares.”

John had grimaced. “Er, yeah. Flatmates should know the worst about each other, right?” He’d grinned sheepishly. “Sometimes I shout. Just…leave me be and I’ll quiet down soon enough.”

Sherlock had frowned, but John had been so wretchedly uncomfortable that he’d simply nodded in agreement. And up until now, the arrangement had worked fine. John would cry out in his sleep for a few minutes at most and then settle as his dreams took on a new form. Sometimes he’d be tired in the morning.

But tonight was different, and if Sherlock had needed confirmation of John’s need for danger, this was it. John had slept like the dead for a week after being kidnapped by the Black Lotus Tong, but now, after two weeks of crime-free idleness, it was clear that not only Sherlock was suffering. 

Another strangled noise drifted down the stairs, and Sherlock, perched in his chair with his hands over his ears, couldn’t take it anymore. There were certain rules as to when Sherlock was allowed to wake John or invade his room, but this had been going on for nine and a half minutes now and enough was enough.

He didn’t bother with subtlety as he bounded up the stairs and threw open the door. Nearly writhing on his mattress, John was tangled in his sheets, drenched with sweat and his expression contorted with such acute distress that Sherlock felt an empathetic pang of anguish. 

They’d never discussed what to do in this situation, but Sherlock had done some research and, rather than loom over the ex-military man, he crouched near his feet, well out of the vicinity of swinging fists.

“John,” he said calmly, at his normal speaking volume. “John, wake up.”

Brow furrowed, John’s head whipped to the side on his pillow, eyes still closed. His hands were in fists.

Risking a light touch on John’s right foot, Sherlock tried again. “John. Wake up, John. You’re safe, you’re at home. It’s Sherlock, John, wake up.”

An agonized moan tore itself from John’s throat, and Sherlock bit his lip, resisting the urge to simply shake the man awake. There was a good possibility that waking John suddenly would make him violently disoriented, likely still acting out his dream and leading to him injuring Sherlock. Then, of course, John would feel terribly, annoyingly guilty for weeks and Sherlock did not have the patience for that.

Gripping his ankle through the sheets, Sherlock gave him a little squeeze, repeating his name and telling him to wake up until, at last, John’s eyelids fluttered. His muscles relaxed as he gradually became aware of his surroundings, panting in his bed. As he recovered, Sherlock took a moment to lean his forehead by John’s foot and take a few deep breaths himself, his hand still gripping John’s ankle reassuringly. When he lifted his head, John was propped up on his elbows and staring down at him with a complicated expression. He was obviously embarrassed, but surprised, too, and possibly…grateful?

“You’re in my room.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock replied, not quite getting the scathing tone he was going for. “You were going to wake the whole street.”

His pale face flushed a bit and he pursed his lips. “You don’t care about the whole street,” he muttered. “And you obviously weren’t sleeping.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and said nothing.

John glanced at the hand still gripping his ankle and back at Sherlock. His expression softened. “Sorry,” he sighed, and flopped onto his back.

“Don’t,” Sherlock snapped, voice raw. He pulled away and got to his feet.

Surprised, John looked at him. “What?”

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock ordered, the image of John’s expression when Sherlock had entered his room still fresh in his mind.

They were silent for several breaths, staring at each other.

“Alright,” John nodded. Then he sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting up.”

“It’s still nighttime.”

He shrugged. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, but –”

“Look,” John sighed. “I feel disgusting,” he admitted, plucking at his damp t-shirt. “I need a shower and I’m not going to be able to sleep anymore tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Okay.”

Standing in front of him, John gave him a bemused expression and Sherlock realized he should probably leave now. John was obviously fine, if a bit tired and rumpled. The cardboard box that had been in the corner of his room was gone now, and several books were stacked by the alarm clock. The bedsheets were pulled up on one side, and under the bed the strap of an army duffle bag peeked out. The toiletry bag was gone, because John’s toothbrush and floss and razor and shaving cream and comb and shampoo and deodorant were all taking up space in the bathroom, along with Sherlock’s things.

“Okay,” he repeated, like an idiot, and turned to go. He was out the door when John stopped him with a hesitant touch to his arm.

“Thanks,” he said firmly, jaw raised and eyes meeting his determinedly. Like the simple word took incredible effort. Sherlock knew how that felt.

“It’s fine,” he promised, and retreated to his own room.

  


**3**

It was eleven forty six in the evening when Lestrade summoned them via text, and John had gone to bed only fourteen minutes ago. He would hardly be asleep yet.

“John!” he called, launching himself up the stairs. “There’s been a beheading in –” He threw open the door and stopped short at the sight of John cursing and scrambling to pull the covers over himself. His face was flushed as he hugged his knees to his chest under the sheets.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John exclaimed. “What have I told you about barging into my room? We have an agreement –”

“No,” Sherlock said distractedly, still boggling over what he was seeing. “You have a list of rules that I occasionally ignore.”

As John spluttered with embarrassed rage, Sherlock could only stare, hand still on the doorknob. This was abnormal. John consistently wanked in the mornings in the shower, not every day, but always in the shower. Sherlock had a theory that John was still marvelling in the luxury of untimed, quality showers after his time in the desert, and found a sensuality in the experience.

So while Sherlock usually humoured John’s illusion that his room was a private little space of his own, he never thought that an unexpected intrusion would reveal anything more illicit than a little drool on his pillow. Why was tonight different? What had changed?

John was still shouting at him. He tuned it out easily.

It was a Tuesday. John did not work tomorrow, so it was admittedly odd that he had gone to bed so early. Sherlock had assumed, lazily, that the man was simply tired. Amateur mistake. 

Shortly before ten o’clock John had insisted upon watching one of those horrid Bond movies.

“You’re terribly uncultured,” John had declared with an amused grin, and had managed to get the DVD player going without help. He’d then insisted upon sitting on the couch, where Sherlock was already lying. “Budge up.”

“I was here first.”

“You’ve been here for six hours, it’s my turn.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

Sherlock was being annoying, but John only grinned. “Oh, really? How does it work then?”

“The couch is the only piece of furniture in the sitting room upon which I can extend to my full height. Therefore, my need for the couch is always priority.”

“You realize it’s the only piece of furniture in the sitting room upon which anyone can lie down, right?”

Sherlock had shrugged, unconcerned. The previews were still playing.

“Well, I suppose I can simply sit on your feet.”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me,” he’d threatened, and Sherlock had felt both irritated and amused. So bullheaded, his John.

 _His John?_ No matter.

Recognizing that cohabitation sometimes required compromise, Sherlock had bent his legs long enough for John to sit at the end of the couch, then had promptly placed them in John’s lap. John had sighed loudly.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock had muttered, turning to face the screen. “My feet don’t smell, and they’re not too heavy.”

“One of those is debateable.”

Sherlock had then spent the next twenty minutes trying to determine whether John thought this feet were smelly or heavy.

In retrospect, John had gotten rather squirmy towards the end of the movie, but Sherlock had just assumed his legs were falling asleep and that his feet were too heavy after all. But he had been comfortable and John hadn’t said anything, so he hadn’t moved. At some point, John had taken to stroking his ankles and the tops of his feet with his fingertips, idle, delicate motions, and Sherlock had been fighting not to shiver for the last half hour of the ridiculous, violent film. 

The moment the film had finished, John had brushed his teeth and retreated to bed, not even bothering to take out the DVD.

“And you’re not even listening to me,” John sighed, exasperated. The way he was huddled under the covers very obviously obscured his lap, where Sherlock’s feet had rested less than a half hour ago. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The implications were mind boggling. 

“You didn’t take out the DVD,” Sherlock muttered, practically dazed. That was the most obvious clue, really.

“What?” John snapped, still flushed. Sherlock felt the back of his neck warming in response.

“Nothing, never mind. We have a case. That’s why I came up here.”

“And you couldn’t have knocked first? Or just shouted for me as per usual?”

Sherlock shrugged, holding up his phone with the text message. “It’s a beheading,” he explained.

“And you got excited,” John sighed, looking like he wanted to scrub his hands over his face. The fact that he didn’t was very telling. “Of course. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Sherlock was very tempted to make an inappropriate comment. So he did. “Take your time if you need it to finish,” he paused, watching John’s eyes widen. “Waking up, that is.”

He clattered down the stairs, wiping his damp palms on his trousers. 

  


**4**

The realization of John’s attraction to him made Sherlock’s simmering, analogous response flare over the next two weeks. Every touch was distracting and titillating, requiring consideration and analysis. Each lingering glance or lick of the lips caught his attention, each cab ride was spent calculating the distance separating them. During cases, part of Sherlock’s focus was always on John’s position in relation to him, each deduction spent watching for the awe in John’s expression. 

It was all horribly distracting, and Sherlock was still at a loss as to how to address it. This mutual attraction. Because it wasn’t simply attraction, no. They were both generally _fond_ of each other, which made everything so much more complicated. Attraction alone could be handled easily with the introduction of a casual, physical relationship. Everyone assumed it of them already, anyway. However, as much as he was loathe to admit it, Sherlock didn’t think he would be able keep such a relationship with John casual. And John, who, as far as Sherlock could tell, had never had a one night stand, who always insisted upon dating his partners before sleeping with them, would likely be averse to casual sex.

So there he was stuck, the both of them in limbo, Sherlock half hoping John would make the first move, half hoping they could just go on ignoring it. Although today, John had tackled a murderous arsonist to the ground and Sherlock had nearly embarrassed himself in front of NSY’s finest.

After the successful conclusion of the case, Sherlock was in bed, unable to ignore his body’s exhaustion any longer. His dreams, filled with flashes of naked skin and a familiar voice speaking unfamiliar words, were interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. The sound, so at odds with the erotic warmth of his dream, immediately shocked him awake.

“John?” he called out, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He strained his ears for a response, but all he heard was a hissing sound, like an aerosol can or a fire extinguisher. His eyes widened and he leapt out of bed. In the sitting room, one of the windows was broken, glass glittering on the floor around a black canister, about the size of a hair spray bottle. From the nozzle, a noxious mist was being dispersed into the room and the moment Sherlock caught its scent his lungs rebelled violently. Covering his nose and mouth with his t-shirt as he coughed, Sherlock barrelled out of the room, closing the door behind him, and up the stairs to John’s room. They had been awake for thirty four hours during the case, and John was still deeply asleep, not even waking at Sherlock’s intrusion.

Grabbing his shoulders, Sherlock shook him. “John, wake up!” he shouted.

“What? Sherlock,” John gasped, startling badly. “What’s –”

“We need to leave,” Sherlock hissed, pulling him upright, “right now. Now, John, come on.”

“What’s going on?” John swatted his hands away and jumped out of bed, instantly alert. 

“Toxic gas,” Sherlock said shortly, already leading the way down the stairs. “Canister thrown through the window.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John began.

Sherlock nodded. “Cover your nose.”

As they clambered down the stairs past the living room door, there was already gas seeping through the bottom of the door. Sherlock tried the handle to apartment A, hammering on the door when he found it locked.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted. 

“Move,” John ordered, pulling him aside.

“Your shoulder –” Sherlock protested as John threw his body against the door, hard enough that splinters burst into the air as the door blew open. 

“Oh, boys!” Mrs. Hudson cried, halfway to the door and hands clutched at her chest. Her feet were in slippers and she wore a pink nightgown with the words _Sleep, Dance, Party_ across the chest.

“No time, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, pulling her against his side and rushing for her back door.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” John added, rolling his shoulder as he followed behind. “You can charge us for the damage later.”

“What’s happening?” she exclaimed, stumbling along as they rushed through her kitchen. 

“Oh, I just figured we could use a vacation,” Sherlock said breezily, opening the door for her.

Mrs. Hudson followed easily enough. “In the middle of the night?” 

“Stay here, alright,” John ordered, placing a hand on each of their shoulders before moving away. 

Sherlock grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

“Just going to see if I can find the bastard. Call Lestrade, yeah?”

“John, don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t even have my phone.”

“Just stay with her.”

Growling under his breath, Sherlock watched as John ambled out onto the street, itching to follow. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm consolingly. “He’s a brave one, our Dr. Watson.”

“I need a phone,” Sherlock muttered.

“I’m sure Mrs. Turner wouldn’t mind.”

The sound of gunshots rang out from the street and Sherlock was running before he even consciously made the decision. “John! _John!_ ” He was about to dash out into the street when a body slammed into him, sending him stumbling back into the alley. 

“You’re the only idiot I know that runs _towards_ the sound of gunfire,” John muttered, pushing him back. Sherlock let him, gripping onto John’s shoulders.

“You would, too,” Sherlock accused.

Mrs. Hudson clutched at her nightgown as they joined her again. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

“Come on, back here,” John urged, pulling them to crouch behind Mrs. Hudson’s bins. “Remember the arsonist I tackled today? Baldridge?” he asked Sherlock lightly.

Sherlock just quirked an eyebrow, wrapping an arm around Mrs. Hudson when she started shivering.

“He _was_ actually arrested wasn’t he?”

“What are you talking about.”

“Well, either he escaped or he has a vengeful twin brother.”

“Both of those options seem pretty unlikely,” Mrs. Hudson pitched in.

“ _My brother is a good man!”_ Someone shouted from the street. Sirens had started up at some point and were rapidly approaching. 

“Well then,” John muttered.

“Your brother killed two people,” Sherlock whispered under his breath.

“ _You ruined his life, Holmes! Come out where I can see you so I can ruin yours!”_

“He’s even more of an idiot than his brother, and that’s saying something.”

Mrs. Hudson giggled while John peeked over a bin. “I’m so glad yesterday was garbage day.”

A shadow appeared at the end of the alley and John ducked down with a curse. He held a finger to his lips, and they all listened to the scuffling of boots on pavement. The sirens were louder now.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do without him,” the shooter despaired, sounding close to tears now.

Mrs. Hudson shifted, her knees and hip aching, and Sherlock squeezed her reassuringly with a grimace. They were stuck here, unable to move without drawing the shooter’s attention. As it was, the man would find them in about two minutes. 

The flash of blue and red lights put the shooter in a panic, and he sprinted down the alley towards their hiding spot, escape his only goal. John looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. Sherlock nodded.

Sherlock stuck out a leg and the shooter went sprawling with a cry, only to have the air knocked out of him as John landed on the man’s back, pinning him to the ground. After pulling Mrs. Hudson to her feet, Sherlock retrieved the gun.

“Doing all the police work, as per usual,” Sherlock muttered to Mrs. Hudson to make her snicker. 

From his position atop the cursing criminal, John shot him a grin, colour high in his cheeks and hair still a mess. Swallowing thickly, Sherlock turned to fetch the police.

  


**5**

Leaning heavily on his crutches, John stood at the bottom of the stairs, a resigned expression on his face.

“This is the worst part,” he decided.

“Really?” Sherlock muttered, snappish and accusatory. “I’d have thought falling off the fire escape was the worst part. Or maybe the landing.”

“I didn’t _fall_ ,” John reminded him. “I was pushed.”

“Well you shouldn’t have let yourself get in a position to be pushed,” Sherlock retorted, taking the crutches and leaning them against the wall, then bending so he could wrap an arm around John’s ribs.

“What, and let the suspect escape?”

“How was he going to escape? We were on a _broken fire escape_.”

“The man was an acrobat! He probably could have done a flip from that height and still land on his feet.”

“Unlike you,” Sherlock shot back with a huff as they made it to the first landing. God, they were both breathing hard already. “Who landed on your ankle, somehow.”

“You know,” John gasped as he hopped up another step, “you should be nicer to me.”

“When am I ever nice to idiots?”

“I’m in pain. And I caught your suspect for you.”

“You’re on too many drugs to be in pain,” Sherlock muttered, but looked over him carefully anyway. His eyes were, indeed, less glassy than they had been at the hospital.

John shrugged. “They’re running out.”

“We’re almost there,” Sherlock encouraged, pointing out the obvious, but John only smiled tightly.

They were both panting by the time they collapsed on the couch together, John with a curse as his cast-engulfed foot was jostled. 

“I have to get your crutches,” Sherlock sighed, but was stopped by John’s warm hand on his knee.

“Sorry for scaring you,” he sighed, eyes closing as he leaned his head back. He squeezed his fingers and Sherlock sucked in a silent breath, his whole body suddenly electrified. “I know it’s hard seeing a…a friend get hurt.” He released Sherlock’s knee and the detective made his escape, clattering down the stairs to retrieve the crutches propped up against the wall at the base.

The door to apartment A creaked open and Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out. “Is he alright, dear?” 

Holding the crutches close to his chest, Sherlock nodded. “He broke a couple bones in his right ankle, but he’ll be fine.”

“Oh, you poor dears,” she fretted. “I’ll make a nice stew for you tomorrow to help him build up his strength. He’ll be healed and chasing after you in no time, you’ll see.”

For some inexplicable reason her words brought tears to his eyes, and she rushed forward to wrap her arms around him, making tutting noises when he lowered his forehead to her shoulder. It was awkward with the crutches still in one hand, but the maternal comfort of her embrace was well worth it. “We were so far up when he fell,” he admitted, voice tight. “I was certain he’d break his neck.”

She hushed him and squeezed her arms around his hunched shoulders. “He’s made of stronger stuff than that, our John.”

They stayed like that, at the bottom of the stairs, until Sherlock won the fight against his tear ducts, and with a final sniffle he straightened up.

“There we are,” she crooned, patting his arm. “Would John like one of my herbal soothers?”

A laugh split Sherlock’s lips. “No, the hospital provided some pain medication, though I’m sure he’d appreciate the offer.”

“Well you just let me know,” she told him sternly, and returned to her flat.

Knowing his eyes were probably still red, Sherlock immediately went about making tea in the kitchen when he entered the flat, avoiding John’s gaze. “Mrs. Hudson offered you the use of her herbal soothers if you feel the need,” he called out.

John laughed. “Did she really? Unfortunately I left my cannabis smoking days behind me at uni.”

It was hard to imagine John truly stoned, but Sherlock tried. There was a slight crease in the middle of John’s eyebrows when Sherlock brought out the tea, though his face carefully smoothed out when he saw Sherlock. With a quiet curse, Sherlock placed down the mugs and pulled out the pain medication from his pocket. 

“Sorry, I should have given this to you first.” He frowned as he read the label. “Maybe you should take up Mrs. Hudson on her offer. This stuff is practically useless.” He shook out a couple tablets and handed them to John, who swallowed them dry, followed by a sip of tea.

“My breaks aren’t bad enough to require anything stronger.”

Sherlock disagreed, but kept the grumbling to a minimum. They drank their tea in silence, and by the time they were done John was obviously flagging. Sherlock considered the extra flight of stairs to John’s room and made an executive decision. “You’ll sleep in my bed tonight. Or until you’re healed.”

“What? That’s really not necessary, I can just sleep on the couch.” Faced with Sherlock’s glare, John reconsidered. “Alright, well it’s only fair that you sleep in my bed then.”

“I’m not allowed in your room.”

“Extenuating circumstances.” John smiled grimly. “Besides, I doubt there’s anything in there that you haven’t already deduced about me.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “You’re sure?” he said, but it didn’t sound like a question.

“Well, I supposed we could share your bed,” he said slowly, teasingly, but his face was serious, eyes focused on Sherlock’s expression.

“No, no, that’s quite alright,” he said, too quickly. Smirking, he added, “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of your vulnerable state.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and snorted. “Alright, well mind helping me up? Hopping is undignified.” 

So, Sherlock deposited John on his own bed, nearly shaking at the sight, then quickly retreated when John assured him that he could brush his teeth and change on his own. 

The trip up the stairs to John’s room somehow felt like an entirely new experience. Perhaps it was because he had permission this time, or because he knew he’d be spending the night in John’s bed, between John’s sheets, where John slept and masturbated and breathed and shed skin cells and dreamed. Perhaps it was because John wouldn’t be there, giving Sherlock free reign to explore every inch of the room.

He started with John’s bedside drawers, where he found the gun that they’d missed earlier tonight; a barely used bottle of expired sleeping pills, prescribed from before John had moved in; a few books which Sherlock flipped through, unable to hold back a snort of disdain at the transparent plots; a well-used tube of chapstick that Sherlock sniffed and applied, rubbing his lips together so he could taste what John tasted; and a half-empty bottle of medical grade lubricant, which Sherlock could not bring himself to touch. In the closet Sherlock found John’s collection of horrid jumpers and cardigans, some of them so hideous he was tempted to take a pair of scissors to them. Shoved at the back were John’s old army fatigues, sealed in an air-tight bag, and his military boots, specks of Afghani dirt still stuck to the soles. His underwear drawer was tidy but without any discernable organization system, same for the sock drawer, all in different combinations of cotton and polyester. What caught his attention was the small book in the back of the drawer, buried under a pile of socks.

“Typical, John,” Sherlock murmured, pulling out what was actually a photo album.

He flipped through the album, glancing over the faces of John’s parents and sister and grandparents and cousins, pausing on John’s face whenever it showed up. At the age of six, John had been frankly adorable, with messy hair that was so blond it was nearly white, a mischievous smile with missing teeth and eyes that were filled with laughter. As a teenager, John was small for his age but strong, with a stubborn jaw and bruised knees. There were photos of him playing rugby, action shots that showed his power and determination as he sprinted, his sweaty, proud, grinning face after a win. The time period between photos became longer after that: a few shots of John with friends, girlfriends and boyfriends from uni, one single shot of him with his team before deployment. As the years went on, there were less and less photos of family and more photos of friends – the people John chose to associate with. 

The photos seemed to end abruptly with a sunset shot somewhere in the Afghani desert, but when Sherlock flipped the next blank page, the photos suddenly resumed again. A new page for a new start, he realized. These photos were all from cases they had been on together. Photos of evidence, of the flat, of Sherlock’s experiments on the kitchen table, of Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade. There was a photo of Rizzo, a homeless teen that had helped them find a suspect’s hideout, and a photo of the rugged landscape during the Baskerville case. And interspersed amongst all these were images of Sherlock himself. Sherlock hunched over his microscope, Sherlock lying on the couch with his hands steepled, Sherlock squinting at evidence, yelling at Anderson, in profile as he spoke to Lestrade. There was an image of Sherlock with his arm around Mrs. Hudson, the both of them smiling, a freeze frame of Sherlock playing the violin while gazing out the flat’s window, a shot of Sherlock washing the dishes for once. 

Sherlock had not even been aware that he was being photographed for most of these. To anyone else it might have been creepy, especially since Sherlock himself had no images of John hidden away. With a memory as good as his, though, Sherlock did not need physical images. Instead, he had an entire wing in his mind palace dedicated to the details of what made up John Watson: the sound of his laugh, the steel in his voice when he barked an order, the empathy in his eyes when faced with the victim of a crime, the feel of his hand on Sherlock’s arm/knee/shoulder/wrist, the smell of his hair when he stepped out of the shower, the wrinkle of his brow when he was annoyed, the clench of his fist when he was angry or out of sorts… A nearly endless collection of sights and sounds and smells and sensations of John Watson. Really, a photo album with memories of Sherlock was the least John should have.

After replacing the photo album Sherlock simply stood in the middle of the room for a moment. Something felt off, inadequate, wrong. This was the perfect excuse to explore John’s room, but somehow, now that he was here, he found himself itching to go back downstairs. He got as far as changing into pyjamas and sitting on John’s bed before realizing he would not be able to sleep here.

When he pushed open the door to his own bedroom, John blinked up at him blearily. “Bored of my room already?”

Fiddling with the ties of his pyjama trousers, he shook his head. “I just realized that the room does not have the same allure without its usual occupant.”

John stared at him. “It’s not the same without me,” he translated.

Forcing himself to stop fidgeting, Sherlock let his hands hang limply at his sides. “Does your previous offer still stand?”

“My previous offer…” John squinted. “Oh! You actually want to –”

“I promise to be on my best behaviour,” Sherlock said drily to cover the tightness of his throat. His fingers were trembling.

Scooching over to make room, John threw back the covers. “Well, come on then,” he said lightly, though his eyes were very dark. 

Closing the bedroom door shrouded them in near total darkness and Sherlock felt his heart rate pick up. Primly, almost tensely, he sat on the edge of the bed before swinging his legs up and laying his head on his pillow. He normally slept sprawled in the middle and worried suddenly that he might flail in his sleep.

“I’m sorry if I kick you,” he announced, then pulled up the covers.

John chuckled. “I’ll just kick you back. With my cast it’ll hurt you more.”

This was comforting somehow and Sherlock nodded, his curls brushing audibly against the pillow. For several moments he lay there, tensely still, before the mattress dipped and John placed a hand on his chest. His breathing accelerated as the hand trailed up his neck and to his jaw, nudging gently so Sherlock would turn his head. He couldn’t see much in the darkness, but he could tell that John’s eyes were very wide, could hear his panting breaths. Their faces were very close.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” John whispered, minty breath brushing Sherlock’s lips. “Is this… Do you want this, too?”

It was too dark for words, so Sherlock simply nodded, tilting his head closer. He turned on his side and placed a hand on John’s far shoulder, urging him to do the same. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but when their lips met it was both a surprise and the most expected thing.

They kissed gently until John’s grip loosened and he sighed with exhausted contentment. Sherlock brushed his lips against his forehead, the sensitive skin under his eyes, the bridge of his nose and once more across his lips before falling back against his pillow. He watched John’s face until his eyelids slipped closed under their own weight, his arm thrown over John’s chest.

  


**+1**

“That,” John gasped, tearing at Sherlock’s coat, “was the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done.”

“You say that,” Sherlock retorted, pressing John against the wall, “every time we do something ridiculous.”

They’d made it as far as the first landing this time, rather than starting in the main entrance like their first four times. Too many close calls with Mrs. Hudson meant they were attempting to practice some self-restraint. Last time they’d made it to the bottom of the staircase before reaching for each other. This time they’d made it up the first flight of stairs – it was improvement. 

“This time tops all those other times,” John swore, tugging Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers and slipping his cool hands up hot, tensing abdominals. 

“We’ll have to reach a peak eventually,” Sherlock pointed out, one thigh slipping between John’s.

With a groan, the shorter man flexed his hips against the pressure. “Several tonight if we’re lucky.”

A chuckle burst from Sherlock’s throat, and John used the distraction to break out of Sherlock’s hold and dart up the steps to their flat. The need to chase was irresistible and Sherlock took the stairs two at a time after him, bursting through the door only to be slammed back against the wall as John attacked him, kissing him brutally and demandingly. Embarrassingly, he felt his knees go a bit weak, and he slid down the wall an inch as John moved his mouth along his jaw, nipping his earlobe, then working against his neck.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, gripping John’s shoulders for balance, hissing at the feel of teeth against his carotid. 

“I think,” John murmured, unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, “that we,” he licked Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, “should use my old room tonight.”

With his heart crashing in his ears, it took a moment before Sherlock even registered the words. “My bed’s bigger,” he argued, tilting his head back and cursing when John pinched a nipple.

“But my room is furthest away.” 

Hands were smoothing across his waist now and he gripped John’s hips to tug him closer. “That implies a high level of confidence on your part.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” John agreed, mouthing at a collarbone now. His fingertips dragged along Sherlock’s lower abdomen and tucked themselves under the edge of his trousers, causing the taller man to curl forward in reaction, pressing his forehead to John’s shoulder. “Why don’t we see if it’s merited.”

He stepped back then and Sherlock nearly fell forwards, still a little dazed with arousal. He was fully hard in his constricting, tailored trousers, but from the look of things John wasn’t doing much better in his jeans. They both shucked their coats, but Sherlock knew that if they went upstairs together they wouldn’t make it to the top, so when John turned towards the hanger, Sherlock threw his coat at John’s face.

“Hang mine up, too, thanks,” he said quickly and dashed up the stairs, shedding his shirt the moment he entered the room. John arrived only second behind him, breathless and grinning. 

“God, what a sight,” he approved, raking his gaze up and down Sherlock’s torso, eyeing his heaving ribs, flushed chest and tight nipples. 

With a smirk, Sherlock heeled off his shoes and collapsed onto John’s old bed, wriggling his hips. “Well, you’ve got me here,” he sighed, as if this was all more trouble than it was worth. “What are you going to do about it?”

Wasting no time, John quickly stripped off his jumper and undershirt with one motion, his pectorals flexing handsomely as he tugged the material over his head. The starburst scar rippled with the movement and Sherlock’s mouth flooded with saliva, remembering all the times he’d tasted that intricately mottled skin.

Tucking his hands beneath his head, Sherlock lounged as John reached for his own belt, hips moving with an exaggerated swing to make Sherlock laugh. It was meant to be silly, theatrical, but the flexing of his abdominals and the sinuous motion were undeniably erotic, making Sherlock’s hips squirm with a mirroring gesture.

“What I intend to do,” John began, voice husky, as he slipped off his shoes and socks, then slid down his trousers and pants, “is to absolutely ravish you.”

Sherlock sucked his bottom lip and shivered, watching as John’s prick sprang free, heavy with blood and pointed right at him.

“I intend to overwhelm you with my sexual prowess,” John rumbled with a smirk, making Sherlock huff another laugh as he stepped out of his clothes. He crawled onto the bed, straddling Sherlock’s legs and hunching low like a hungry panther. It was ridiculously, stupidly arousing. “I am going to tease you until you’re breathless,” he murmured, taking Sherlock’s unresisting wrists and pressing them into the mattress, leaning close so his breath brushed Sherlock’s ear, “and make you come so hard you scream.”

The sound that ripped from his throat was too high and desperate to be considered a moan, his hips flexing upwards towards the heat of John’s nude body. Still trapped in his trousers, his erection throbbed, nearly painful, and John had hardly touched him yet.

“Sound good?” he asked roughly, nuzzling into Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock growled, squirming beneath him. “Just get on with it.” His breath caught at the sound of John’s low chuckle. 

Lowering his hips, John ground against Sherlock’s clothed pelvis, two circular motions that made Sherlock jerk as if electrocuted, then swiftly slid down his lithe torso as his fingers unbuttoned and unzipped. Sherlock buried his hands in John’s hair, still too short to grip properly, as he lifted his hips, allowing John to rid him of the rest of his clothing. 

Once again at the foot of the bed, John glanced up at him beneath lowered eyelashes, kissing the top of his right foot, then his left ankle, skimming the hair of his right shin, then licking his left knee. He nibbled gently along his right thigh, then pressed a kiss to his left hip, and by the time he pressed his nose to the base of his cock, Sherlock was gripping the sheets and groaning through a clenched jaw. 

“Either touch me,” he ground out, voice sounding like crushed glass, “or come up here so I can touch you.”

John exhaled hotly against the head of his prick before sticking his tongue out for a dainty little taste.

“Oh, my God.”

Sucking the head into his mouth, John hummed, swirling his tongue around like he was licking a lolly. “Getting there,” he murmured when he pulled off.

Completely unable to help himself, Sherlock thrust up, following John’s mouth, but was only granted soft, close-mouthed kisses down his shaft before John sucked his right testicle into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_.”

“Turn over,” John ordered, swatting his hip.

Taking a few seconds to gather himself, Sherlock twisted his torso before flopping onto his stomach, burying his hot face in his crossed arms.

“I don’t know if it’s the trousers,” John said conversationally and Sherlock wanted to growl in frustration. “But your arse has been especially distracting today.”

“My arse is always distracting to you,” he grumbled, pushing said part of his body up as John stroked the small of his back with his thumbs. 

“Yes, but especially today,” John murmured against his spine. His hands trailed over his buttocks until his thumbs settled in the crease between cheek and thigh, inching in and squeezing while his lips worked their way to his coccyx. 

The pillow only partly muffled the noises that escaped Sherlock’s throat, increasingly desperate as John’s tongue wriggled closer and closer to his centre. Sherlock spread his legs, and John readjusted himself so he was settled in the vee of Sherlock’s thighs, spreading the offered cheeks and getting right to the point.

Twisting his head to the side, Sherlock bit his own arm as John’s agile tongue circled his rim, stroking the sensitive muscle until it quivered and dilated, eager for more. For several long minutes John continued to lap over his anus, his fingers messaging circles into his perineum, and Sherlock was certain he’d have bruises on his arm from where his teeth dug in. 

“ _More_ , John,” he gasped finally, pressing his face back into the pillow when John listened, stiffening and extending his tongue until it breached Sherlock’s body. “ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock hissed, long and sibilant, increasing the arc of his back.

His hips quivered with the urge to frot against the mattress, but John’s fingers bit into his hips to restrain him, John’s face pressed unashamedly against his arse as his tongue thrust forcefully. The pleasure was nearly unbelievable, seeming to radiate from his clenching, pulsing anus, through his testicles, up his spine and into the base of his brain, making him light headed with it. 

When a whine tore itself from Sherlock’s throat, John patted his hip and held out a hand, his tongue continuing its writhing motion. He patted Sherlock’s hip again, then held out his hand with wriggling fingers, and Sherlock realized what he wanted. He threw out a limp arm to open the bedside drawer, riffling inside until his fingers found the lube bottle, which he thrust into John’s waiting hand. With a pleased hum that vibrated throughout Sherlock’s pelvis, John snapped open the cap and replaced his tongue with his first two fingers. 

“Finally,” Sherlock groaned, trying to manoeuver to his hands and knees, but John’s free hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pushing him down again.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, twisting his fingers. “Stay down. Hands where I can see them.”

The dominance in John’s voice sent a thrill up Sherlock’s spine, which exploded into radiating waves of pleasure when John’s fingertips found his prostate with the efficiency of his medical training. A guttural cry got caught in the back of his throat, trailing off into panting when John didn’t let up, maintaining a gentle, circular massage that made his hips squirm with shivery pleasure. 

Burying his hands in his own hair, Sherlock sucked in great lungfuls of air, sweat prickling along his spine and in his armpits as the pleasure seemed to plateau, unbelievably good but unchanging.

“John,” he gasped. “John, I can’t, give me more.”

He yelped when teeth nipped his bum, a third finger pushing into his arse. “You’re not breathless enough yet.”

“I can,” he huffed incredulously, “hardly breathe.”

“You’re still verbal,” he accused, smoothing his hand up Sherlock sweaty back. He gripped a shoulder and tugged, urging Sherlock to push himself up until his back was pressed to John’s front, his head tilted back to rest on John’s shoulder. With one hand still inside him, John ran his free hand all over Sherlock’s bared torso and chest, tweaking nipples and stroking the trail of hair under his belly button while he mouthed at Sherlock’s neck. 

With so many points of stimulation, Sherlock quickly lost the ability to speak, breaths sawing in and out of his lungs as John worked his prostate, sucked on the skin below his ear, scratched at his pubic hair. His cock throbbed with each heartbeat, nearly purple with arousal and positively dripping, the foreskin fully retracted and his testicles drawn tight up against his body. When John tugged on his testicles and only got a desperate whine in response, he knew he’d teased long enough.

“Grab onto the headboard, love,” John murmured, pressed up against Sherlock’s long back. 

The loss of John’s fingers was quickly assuaged by the press of his eager cock, nudging between his cheeks and against his hole. Spreading his legs as far as the tendons in his hips allowed, Sherlock gripped the headboard, white-knuckled, letting his head hang as he panted.

Sherlock was so worked up that the penetration of John’s cock was nearly effortless, the deliciously hot, hard shaft sliding up and in until they were pressed together as closely as two people could be. John’s groan of pleasure was met by Sherlock’s deep sigh of relief, the taller man’s hips thrusting minutely while John tried to compose himself.

“So good,” John huffed, wrapping both arms around Sherlock’s thin chest. He pulled his hips back a bit before thrusting forward again, as if not being entirely inside was unbearable. “ _So_ good.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, his fingers clenching as John started up a slow rhythm, his hips barely pulling away before nudging forwards again. One hand slithered down to Sherlock’s hip, tilting his pelvis by increments until the next thrust forced a wheezing cry from Sherlock’s lips.

“God, that’s it,” John grunted, holding Sherlock’s hip tightly and increasing the pressure, if not the speed, of his thrusts. 

Each time John pulled back, Sherlock could feel every inch of his cock sliding against his oversensitive rim. Each time John pushed back in, Sherlock could feel the head of his cock nudging against his swollen prostate. Each shift of their bodies sent lightning bolts of pleasure into Sherlock’s brain, so bright he was afraid his vision might white out. The sounds he was making were ridiculous, embarrassing, but John was only encouraged, fucking him hard and fast now, the bedsprings creaking, the headboard nearly banging into the wall.

To save his fingers, Sherlock let go of the headboard to press his hands flat against the wall, providing resistance against each glorious thrust. John made a strangled sound and slid his hand down Sherlock’s belly to fist his cock, not stroking, simply letting the movement of their coupling push Sherlock’s erection in and out of the tunnel of his hand. 

Mouth dropping open, throat so dry he couldn’t properly swallow, Sherlock sucked in a desperate breath as the pleasure erupted throughout his body. The muscles of his anus clenched and spasmed around John’s cock, his abdominals tensing as he instinctively thrust forward into John’s tight fist, his ejaculate pulsing almost violently out of him as John pulled him back into his next thrust, multiplying the pleasure until, like a tsunami, it submerged everything in its path. For several terrifying heartbeats, he floated on this wave of ecstasy, unaware of anything else until, gradually, his senses were returned to him.

His ears were buzzing and his throat was raw, his face damp with perspiration and his whole body trembling. Still pressed up behind him, John was holding up most of his weight with his arms, and Sherlock braced himself against the wall as he slumped, John’s softening cock slipping from his body unpleasantly. John apologized in response to Sherlock’s displeased groan.

“You alright?” John murmured, kissing the back of his neck and rubbing his back soothingly. “That was pretty intense.”

Feeling like his head weighed as much as a bowling ball, Sherlock nodded. “Thirsty,” he croaked.

“Okay, just let me…” He grabbed some tissues and used them to gently wipe the worst of the mess from Sherlock’s body, then cleaned himself perfunctorily. “Be back in a tick.”

While John retreated downstairs, Sherlock threw the ejaculate-covered pillow onto the floor and collapsed on the bed, squirming against the delicious aching of his body. Within moments John had returned and was urging him to sit up, handing him a glass of cold, refreshing water.

“I’d say it was merited,” Sherlock sighed, flopping back on the bed and spreading his arms.

A boyish, pleased grin split John’s lips and Sherlock felt an answering flare of affection. “Yeah?” John asked, crawling onto the bed and snuggling into Sherlock’s embrace. “I mean, the screaming was pretty suggestive, but it’s always nice to hear the actual words.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbled, tucking his knees up behind John’s. 

“So you’re saying you were overwhelmed by my sexual prowess?” 

“Right now, I’m overwhelmed by the size of your ego.”

John choked on a laugh, twisting in his arms to grin up at him. “The irony of you saying that is beyond belief.”

Sherlock raised his chin haughtily so John couldn’t reach it with his seeking lips.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” John told him, pecking his chin when Sherlock lowered it to glare. “You or your sexual prowess.” 

With matching sighs of contentment, they settled again, Sherlock pressing his lips to the back of John’s head.

“This room really is better with you in it,” he murmured.

John hugged his arms tighter against his chest in reply. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love all kudos and comments! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at http://notesoflore.tumblr.com/


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